Mikie and Lili Among the Tall Trees: Marigolds, Ch. 14

I considered ransoming back my car from the swarthy garage attendant to whom I had entrusted it just a few hours before. Damp, and draped in a sleeveless formerly white tee shirt with small tufts of wiry, salt,pepper and something else hair peeking out along the edges of the ribbed material, he had been the most memorable image from this trip. It had been trumped.

I left the car where it was and walked toward 1^st Avenue and the East River. There were hotels in the neighborhood catering to diplomats and those having business with diplomats. I had just spent time with a diplomat, although he was dead for much of that time. Still, I thought I qualified.

The Beekman Tower Hotel, 49^th Street at 1^st Avenue, was pet-friendly. I envisioned the wife of the French Minister of Finance and her fatuous poodles or the cousin of the King of Morocco, Mohammed the Whatever, with his menacing Maltese availing themselves of the Beekman’s four-legged hospitality. It was also as expensive as hotels used by people not paying their own bills usually are. I had a pocket full of cash courtesy of my late client. I checked in.

“How long will you be staying with us at the Beekman, Mr. O’Keefe?”

“Just tonight, I hope.”

“I see.” The desk clerk pecked purposely at his keyboard. “I see you won’t have need of a bellman?” It was not judgmental, just an apt observation. I was unencumbered. To my left was a tall, well-groomed Afghan. He sat quiet as if awaiting a command. So did his dog.

I am very fond of Art Deco. Besides being a haven for animals with international pedigree and in a great neighborhood, the Beekman was a terrific example throughout of that architectural style. I took the studio suite I was offered on the twenty-sixth floor even though it would devour most of my folding money. I had decided that I would be happy to render the remainder to the Beekman’s Tower Restaurant after I cleaned up.

I parted the curtains affording me the lush and lively saturation of Brooklyn’s lights reflecting on the much-maligned East River. After dark it is as pretty and as sensuous as any river in the world. My phone chirped.

“Mr. O’Keefe, this is Detective McClain. Can we talk about Mary Frances Flaherty?”